Routines
by BuryTheHatchet
Summary: It was a lack of trust that compelled him to follow her. Gibbs had asked him to do it when they first met, and now he was doing it of his own volition. It really is not as creepy as it sounds. Or maybe it is.


**This was something I found tucked into my copy of 1984 the other day. Judging by the handwriting, the paper and the ink used I probably wrote it about five years ago. I did improve it a bit, removing some of the clunky wording and adding some more poetic vocabulary, and I did try to remove any clumsy mistakes, but the story is still the same. Oh, I added some bits too.**

 **This is a lot of big blocks of text. Sorry about that. I do not want to change it though.**

Routines

He still didn't trust her. Why should he? She was the control officer of the man who killed Kate. Kate was his colleague, his friend, his sister. And in she waltzes, expecting that they would automatically accept her as part of their team. But that wasn't the way the world worked. McGee had spent the past three days being kind to her. But then, the Probie was brought up to use manners. And he was petrified she would kill him, which wasn't an unlikely outcome. Ducky was being Ducky, polite. Abby had the right idea. Kate was her friend and no matter how hard she tried, or how attractive she was, she would never be a match for Kate. She would never even come close.

It was Gibbs reaction he was most annoyed with though. At first he though his boss would send her packing, but then it was one talk in the elevator and he was letting her stay. It had taken him so much longer to get a place on Gibbs team. And he hadn't been in charge of a psycho trying to kill him!

So, he qualified for himself, that was why he was following her, late at night. It wasn't because she was a mysterious, exotic woman who, if she wasn't an assassin, he wouldn't mind spending the night with. No. He was following her because he didn't trust her. He made sure to keep further back this time, so as to not alert her to his presence. He wasn't sure how she had done it the last time, but she had known he had been tailing her that night. She probably knew that he had been stood watching her swim, too.

He parked down the road from the entrance of the gym car park the red mini turned into and walked towards it. He spotted the little red car in the darkest corner of the gravel and he peered through the glass and snorted when he saw that it was pristine. She was a killer, trained to make people disappear. She probably kept her car so clean to avoid having too much to tidy up after she made a hit.

Someone exited the sports centre and he leapt away from the car, attracting the attention of the man now walking across to the only other car in the fenced off area. He just smiled and nodded, like he hadn't been caught peeking into someone's car, before hurrying off to the main entrance and catching the door just before it could swing closed. The only lights on were the dim, energy-saving emergency lights, giving the reception and corridors an eerie glow. He stood silently, listening to the hum of electricity as he tried to pick out a sound that didn't belong, any sound to indicate her location. There was a low, soft, constant murmur coming from one of the hallways and he followed it, frowning when the indistinct drone morphed into music. He stopped at the door the music was loudest outside and cautiously looked through the window.

The lights were off, leaving only the yellow of the streetlamp outside to cast long shadows across the floor of the mirrored dance studio. He sensed movement and saw her step into the centre of the wooden floor. Her appearance shocked him. The straps of her black leotard dropped to mid back where they created a criss-crossed pattern just above where the black wrap skirt started. The flowing material stopped at her knees at the back but barely scrapped the top of her thighs at the front. Her hair was pulled in to a bun at the back of her head so tight that he could not imagine it comfortable. She extended her leg behind her and his eyes were drawn to the pink satin pointe shoe and the ribbons that wrapped around her ankle and calve. She rolled up on the other foot and transferred the leg from behind her to in front of her. The music became lighter and sprightlier and she moved elegantly to follow that. She performed little hops and turns, her intricate footwork matched perfectly by her dainty arm movements. He watched as a smile tugged at the corner of her lips. It was different to the ones he had seen from her so far. Those were almost forced, but this was natural. It was a quiet smile, something he didn't think many people had seen from her and he suddenly felt like he was intruding as she floated around the room like a piece of silk on a current of air, but he was so mesmerised by the sight of her dance that he couldn't tear his eyes away.

He wasn't certain how long he stood watching her, but he was startled when the music stopped and she finished elegantly, dipping into a small curtsey for an invisible audience. She walked over to her bag and took a drink of water before tugging on the ribbons that secured the slippers onto her feet and pulled them off, tucking them neatly into her bag. She then unwound the skirt from her waist and Tony turned away, for the first time in his life feeling uncomfortable about watching a woman undress. He didn't know why he was suddenly so uneasy, but he couldn't seem to convince himself that it was because she was a trained killer and she would probably kill him if she found out he had been watching. No, in fact that made the idea of watching all the more enticing. He then tried to convince himself that it was because she was a colleague, no matter how much he disliked that fact, but then he realised that that wasn't really a very good argument either. He had a feeling that it had something to do with the way she had such an innocent look on her face as she danced, and the fact that she didn't know he was watching. If she had known he was watching, she wouldn't have been undressing in the middle of the dance studio. He ducked behind a corner in the corridor as she walked out of the room and watched as she made her way, not out of the sports centre but deeper inside the building, towards a flight of stairs that led to a basement. He followed her a minute later, being careful to avoid any squeaky floorboards he might have the un-fortune to step on. The door at the bottom of the stairs had a number lock on it, but when he tried the handle it opened with ease. He slipped in and took in his surroundings. He was in an observation gallery that looked over a lower level of the basement. The dark room overlooked an even darker sub-basement housing a shooting range and he crept quietly to the large window and sat down. Two lights flicked on, illuminating a single target and a single stall. She walked over, clad in a skin-tight black t-shirt and black cargo pants, leaving about an inch of mid-rift on show. He watched in awe as she unloaded her magazine into the target and then threw her knife at it for good measure. She'd hit the target 17 times, not including the knife wound, 5 to the centre of the head, 5 to the heart, and 7 effectively cuffing the poor guy in half. The knife had slid into the top most bullet hole and sliced down the perforated line created by the seven holes, the clatter it made as it landed on the floor still echoing around the room. She holstered her weapon and hopped over the barrier, walking calmly over to the target, collecting her knife off of the floor and walking back again. She left the room as it was and flicked the light out, making Tony dash upstairs as quickly and as quietly as he could. He watched as she typed the key-code into the lock on the basement door and then watched as the pressed the button behind the desk to release the external doors. He slipped quickly out, keeping to the shadows as she climbed into her car and zoomed off.

* * *

He followed her again the next night, this time not out of a lack of trust but out of curiosity. He wanted to see her dance again. But she didn't. She drove to an apartment building he assumed was home. He repeated this the next night and the next, but she still didn't return to the gym. And then another case came along, and they were working overnight, and she wouldn't have had time to go to the gym even if she had wanted to. But then, when he followed her the night the case was wrapped up, she went back. He watched as she danced again. The same music, the same leotard, the same skirt, the same routine. He followed her down to the basement again. This time she put a single bullet in the forehead and left. He wondered maybe if she was re-enacting deaths, but he shook his head at that thought a few weeks later, when he watched her give the target a smiley face – bullet holes for eyes and a line of bullet holes for a mouth. It resembled some sort of sick, sadistic, messed-up snowman. He wondered why everything but the cause of death was the same each week. Right down to the way she tied the ribbons on her shoes and the way she did her hair. He still didn't watch her undress, even if he had spent the previous few nights with her scantly clothed body pressed against his. In his head he could still smell her sweet perfume, still feel the green satin of her dress and the silky black material of her chemise on his fingertips.

Her routine stayed the same, and so did his. After a case she would go to the gym, dance and shoot. He guessed it was like a release, letting her express her emotions. He would follow and watch her. But the intent had changed from dishonest spying to keep an eye on a suspicious colleague to curiosity to…he didn't know what it was that kept making him go back. It relaxed him, watching her dance. With the music and the ballet, everything seemed so much more peaceful. And he liked the side of Ziva he was seeing. It wasn't a side he had seen at all when they were working, or training, but as she pirouetted around the room she became someone else, someone he could trust. It was a person that only he knew, and that made it feel special. He never made any comments about it, and he never told a soul, because if he did then he might not be able to watch her again, and if anyone else knew then this Ziva, this calm, peaceful Ziva, she wouldn't be only his anymore.

* * *

The leotard, skirt and pointe shoes were gone the next time he was there, along with the music he had been searching for. They were replaced by a sports bra, tight, cropped yoga pants and slightly more modern music. This music had a more distinct beat to it and was louder. Her feet were bare and her hair loose and in waves as her bold movements flung her around the room. He could hear the harsh slap that echoed throughout the room when her feet slammed against the floor and he winced every time. Watching her made him realise that tonight's session of dance was not so much about a release as a method of torture. He wanted to walk in and tell her to stop, turn on the other music and dance the way he had seen her dance so many times, but then she would know that he had been watching her. So he just stared every time she twisted and turned, her body pulsating with the heavy beat of the music, her back arching when the music came to a particularly heavy thud, her arms stretching away from her and her head snapping backwards so her face was to the ceiling. She held there for a microsecond but in that microsecond Tony could see all of the pain and anguish written across her face projected throughout her entire body. It was like she was trapped and trying to get out. And then she spun away again, extending her legs into the splits mid air, her feet coming down and colliding with the wood once more. This wasn't the controlled, perfected routine that he had grown used to, this was something completely different. This was something wild and untamed, messy and violent, almost unhuman. The music lasted for another ten minutes without stopping, and when it did she continued for a minute in silence, only stopping when she crumbled to the floor. He didn't know what was happening. She had been dancing and then it was like someone had hit a switch and she had just fallen. He was about to open the door, ask her if she needed an ambulance, when he realised she was crying. Her whole body shook with tears as she screamed in anguish. She wasn't in physical pain, he could see that it was the emotional pain that was tormenting her as she folded in on herself, trying to muffle her sobs with her hand and not succeeding. He felt his chest tighten at the sight of the strong woman he had grown to accept as his partner breaking before his eyes. She was supposed to be so strong, determined, and formidable. She was supposed to be indestructible. And there she was, looking like no more than a lost little girl in a big bad world. For the second time that evening he felt compelled to go in there and tell her to stop. Tell her to stop causing herself pain and go back to the happy dancing that he had previously seen, but something stopped him. It was the wild, animal like cries; they frightened him. He couldn't put his finger on why they disturbed him so much, but he knew that he would have nightmares about them. It was like she was mourning the loss of every friend she'd ever had all at once. And then it struck him. She probably was. The case had brought back memories. Memories of lost friends and decapitated heads left on doorsteps. He realised how much she had lost in that moment. She had lost a sister, a mother, multiple friends and partners. And he had had the gall to shun her from his team, to blame her for the loss of one friend when it wasn't even her fault. She had lost so much more than he had, and yet she always appeared so strong, ready to take on the world. He had found it hard to function when Kate had died, and yet somehow she managed to carry on through everything, carrying the weight of death around with her every day. He could see now why she so desperately wanted to be a part of their team. Being a part of their team would give her the opportunity to start again, make new friends who had all the traits she liked – strong, brave, confidant – but without such a risk of seeing them die. He backhanded the tears he hadn't notice fall silently down his cheeks as he watched her wail. He watched for half an hour as she cried herself to exhaustion, still coiled up on the floor of the mirrored dance studio. She wouldn't be shooting tonight. When he was certain she was in a deep enough slumber to enable him to move her without waking her he opened the door as quietly as possible and carefully making his way to her bag. He pulled out her car keys and slid them into his pocket, shouldering her bag and turning to look at her. He walked over and crouched down, trying to figure out the best way to pick her up and carry her. Once decided, he slid one arm under her knees and wrapped the other around her back, lifting her and hugging her to his chest, pleasantly surprised by how light she was. He struggled out to her car and slid her into the passenger seat, moving to the driver's side and fighting his way to fit in without adjusting the seat and wheel positions. That was a sure-fire way to be caught out. He took the route he took to her apartment when he was following her, constantly checking to ensure she was sleeping still. He parked in the space he always saw her park outside her apartment.

As he carried her to the main door he realised he didn't know which apartment she actually lived in, so, whilst cradling her sleeping body in his arms, he went down the list of buzzers, grateful when he found the newest one.

 _Z. David, 3B_

He smiled at the no-nonsense label. The others were all coloured, or had small doodles on them, but hers was plain white with black writing. It was simple and discreet. He used her key again to open the main door and decided against the elevator, worried that it might ding and wake her. So he walked up the stairs, careful not to let her head loll too far and collide with the wall or the banister. The apartment itself was simple, Spartan and clean. It was like her desk; everything was purposeful. Nothing frivolous. He carried her through each of the rooms until he found the bedroom, where he laid her down and tucked her in. She whimpered and thrashed and he froze, uncertain if he had woken her, but she calmed back down again. He sighed and brushed her thick curls away from her face before leaning down and pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead.

"Goodnight, Ziva David." He murmured as he walked out of the room. He placed her keys on the table and sat her bag by the door before leaving the apartment and calling a taxi.

She would wake up to find herself asleep in her spare bedroom, still in the gym clothes she had worn the night before. Her keys wouldn't be where she normally left them and she would trip over her bag when she woke. She would have no recollection of how she got home, but she would have the faintest memory of soft lips on her forehead and her car would smell like Tony when she drove to work.

* * *

He listed to the classic station on his radio as they drove to the gym, in separate cars. She was four cars ahead and still, as far as he was aware, oblivious to his presence. She had never brought up the subject of him following her, and nor had he. The piece of music ended and a new one started and Tony sighed, because it wasn't the piece of music she danced to. He had been searching for it since the first night, but to no avail. It was hard to look for a piece of music with no grounds to base your search on. But he had come prepared this time. He grabbed the Dictaphone out of his glove compartment and followed her inside, recording as soon as the music started. It was back to the old music, the music he liked, and she was back to wearing her leotard and skirt and pointe shoes and having her hair in a bun so tight it looked like it hurt. He smiled as she danced her old moves, knowing that this would overwrite the nightmares of her lamentations from the previous week that plagued him. She was beautiful as she moved, not that she wasn't beautiful anyway, but her movements were so slick and so fluid, her body so supple, that he could almost forget that she was a trained killer. Almost. But that was what her trip to the shooting range was for: to prove to – no, to remind – him that she was a killer.

* * *

"Hey, Duckman."

"Ah, Anthony. Our Petty Officer died…"

"Ducky, I don't care about the case." Tony said, stopping the old pathologist before he could get carried away.

"You don't care about the case?" Ducky was appalled.

"No. Well, I do, but I have a more pressing matter."

"More pressing than murder? It must be important." He watched as Tony pulled the Dictaphone out of his pocket.

"I heard this piece of music the other day and I want to know what it is." He pressed play and let the quiet music echo off of the cold walls of Autopsy. Ducky smiled.

"Why, it's Romeo and Juliet."

"I thought that was a play?"

"It was originally. But Prokofiev wrote the music for it to become a ballet." Ducky narrowed his eyes. "Why, dear boy, is this so important?"

"No reason, it was just bugging me." Tony grinned. "Thanks, Ducky, you've been a great help." He flicked a wave behind him, already in the elevators when Ducky started to explain how the Petty Officer had drowned.

* * *

"What are you doing this weekend?" He approached her desk as everybody was packing up.

"Nothing. Housework probably." She shrugged, continuing to stay seated and finishing her report as everyone else called it quits.

"Right, well, um, I'm not sure if you'll be interested, but I have a spare ticket to the ballet and I was just wondering if you would like to accompany me?"

"What ballet?" She asked sceptically. Tony wasn't the sort of person to have tickets to the ballet.

"Romeo and Juliet. I brought the tickets for a girlfriend's birthday about a year ago because she'd mentioned really wanting to go, and then we broke up and I forgot all about them." He lied. "It's in New York. You don't have to come if you don't want to, it's just that you'd probably make better company thank McGee." He blathered. "I can always ask Ducky or maybe even Abby but I don't think she'll enjoy it as much as I thought you might." She stared at him and he realised his error. "I remember you mentioning that you liked to dance when you were younger to the suspect the other day, and I just…"

"You watched that interview?" She frowned.

"Well, yeah, I just…y'know, it was on the screen. Don't worry, I was the only one who watched, everyone else was off doing other things." He smiled and she nodded, chewing on her bottom lip as she considered his offer. "We can fly up there, and we can go to the ballet, we can get dinner and we can stay in a hotel, then fly back Sunday morning?"

"I do not know, Tony…"

"Come on, it will be fun."

"How much will this cost me?"

"Nothing. I'll pay. My treat. Think of it as a welcome to America gift." She narrowed her eyes at him.

"I moved hear over three months ago. You are a little late."

"Better late than never." He shrugged and attempted a small, apologetic smile.

"I will accompany you to the ballet, Tony." She gave a subtle nod and turned her computer off, picking up her back and standing up.

"Great. I'll pick you up at 1300 hours on Saturday. Ballet starts at 2000 hours." He turned and left her in the now empty squad room as she sank back into her chair, contemplating the exchange that had just happened.

 **I have just reread this and realised how creepy I made Tony sound. It was not supposed to come across that way, I swear.**

 **There is going to be a second chapter with them at the ballet, but I need to finish typing it up and making it better, and I really wanted to get this uploaded because for some reason I got really excited about it and I do not know why, but I just had to upload it and I was getting really fidgety about it. It is not even that good, I think it was just because it has been hidden for so long and I just…I do not even know. Everything in my head is a tad confusing at the moment, and I have been very impulsive over the past few days, never a good sign with me. Oh, well. I am sure I will get over it, I always do.**

 **For my reference: 35** **th** **NCIS fic.**


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